To William Cullen Bryant, Esq.
SHEFFIELD, May 1, 1864.
THANK your magnificence! Perhaps I ought to say your misericordia, for
Charles says you wrote to him that you knew I should n't have those
grapes unless you sent them to me. And I am afraid it's true; for I
have had such poor success in my poor grape-culture, that I had about
given up in despair.
[272] Nonetheless, I have had these set out, according to the best of
my judgment, in the best place I could find in the open garden, and I
will have a trellis or something for them to run upon; and then they
may do as they have a mind to.
I have delayed to acknowledge the receipt of the grape-roots,--Charles
is n't to blame, I told him I would write,--because I waited for the
cider to come, that wife and I might overwhelm you with a joint letter
of thanks, laudation, and praise. But I can wait no longer. That is,
the cider does n't come, and I begin to think it is a myth. Poets,
you know, deal in such. They imagine, they idealize, nay, it is said
they create; and if we were poets, I suppose we should before now
have as good as drank some of that Long Island champagne. Speaking of
poets reminds me that I did n't tell you how charmed I was with those
translations from the Odyssey; the blank verse is so simple, clear, and
exquisite, so I think.
To Miss Catherine M. Sedgwick.
SHEFFIELD, May 5, 1864.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--Dear B. did you no wrong, and me much right, in giving
me to read a letter of yours to her, written more than a month ago,
which impressed me more and did me more good than any letter I have
read this long time. It was that in which you spoke of Mr. Choate.
It was evidently written with effort and with interruptions,--it was
not like your finished, though unstudied letters, of which I have in
my garner a goodly sheaf; but oh! my friend, take me into your [273]
realm, your frame of mind, your company, wherever it shall be. The
silent tide is bearing us on. May it never part, but temporarily, my
humble craft from your lovely sail, which seems to gather all things
sweet and balmy-affections, friendships, kindnesses, touches and traits
of humanity, hues and fragrances of nature, blessings of providence and
beatitudes of life--into its perfumed bosom.
You will think I have taken something from Choate. What a strange,
Oriental, enchanted style he has! What gleams of far-off ideas,
flashes from the sky, essences from Arabia, seem unconsciously to drop
into it! I have been reading him, in consequence of what you wrote.
It is strange that with all his seeking for perfection in this kind
he did not succeed better. But it would seem that his affluent and
mysterious genius could not be brought to walk in the regular paces.
He was certainly a very extraordinary person. I understand better his
generosity, candor, amiableness, playfulness. I understand what you
mean by the resemblance between him and your brother Charles. With
constant love of us all,
Yours ever,